


Harp and Lyre

by Siadea



Series: Harp and Lyre [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Telerin culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:03:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/pseuds/Siadea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to live in Valinor after the worst failure of your entire life: a guide by Salgant, formerly of Gondolin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know Quenya, and I _especially_ do not know Telerin. I have done my best.  
>  Golodoi - Noldor  
> Salmaganto - Salgant; 'lute-player'  
> Alpalondë - Alqualondë

Salgant died weeping, and he was reborn weeping as well. His family had to be summoned to Este’s gardens to retrieve him; he had not thought to send for them on his own. No one of his family but he had made the Crossing; his aunts had died at Alqualondë, and his parents and little brother never left home. Home, Formendessë, in the northernmost reaches of Oiomurë, where winters were long and summers poignantly brief. Salgant had left for honor, vengeance, and the Swan-ships. He returned with neither honor nor ship, and no vengeance either.

His family, his beloved family, had wanted to celebrate his homecoming, and Salgant had to beg them not to. No one had told them of Gondolin, or Salgant’s role in its fall, or what became of him after. All they knew was that their lost son, their older brother, had come home. There was no celebration, but Formendessë was a small village and everywhere Salgant had to avoid well-wishers and curious neighbors. This he could tell them: Beleriand was more dread and more terrible than even rumor painted. He had songs, and he would sing some of them, but he would not talk about what he did there. And he would touch no stringed instrument at all; if anything convinced the Teleri of Formendessë that Salgant’s fëa was sorely wounded, it was that. He said nothing of Gondolin, nothing from its founding to its ending, not even the most harmless of memories. (He’d had more members in his House than made up his entire town. He had, personally, failed more people than the entire population of Formendessë, even before the rest of Gondolin was accounted for.)

He sent no message to anyone to announce his return, crowning cowardice with more cowardice. He slept poorly in his parents’ house, which was much increased in size from his youth. His little brother had wedded in his absence - wedded and had grown children! Two sons had moved to Alqualondë, but Salgant’s niece had stayed, and herself was wed and expecting a child. The house had grown apace; his niece’s husband was from Avallonë, and had no family house in Formendessë. Salgant sometimes questioned the man’s wisdom for moving _to_ remote Formendessë, but he took such joy in Oiomurë’s raw mountains and glaciers that it was easy to see his reasoning. Niece and nephew-in-law both treated him with entirely uncalled-for awe, as some of the younger villagers did. It made Salgant want to scream. Every so often, he went out to the hills and did so. It did nothing whatsoever for his newfound reputation.

The Sea, at least, no one could take from him: Salgant put himself aboard his family’s fishing boat as soon as he stopped weeping at stray gulls and sea-foam. The work was familiar, bred into his very bones, and soon Salgant’s hands became callused again, his face toughened by clean salt. He and his brother took the dogs out sledding, as they had in his youth, and brought back game, wild sheep and elk and once even a bear. Gondolin began to seem like more of a dream than his own past; what happened after the city’s fall could have been a passing nightmare.

Maeglin came that spring.

Salgant returned from the docks one chill evening to find the _other_ traitor lord of Gondolin speaking with Tilissë, whose two spare rooms served as Formendessë’s inn. She was pale and worried in the face of Maeglin’s circlet - the last time royalty came to Formendessë, it had been Fingolfin’s host crossing the Helcaraxë, and Salgant had gone with them.

“Salmaganto!” Tilissë called when she saw him, waving her hands. “A lord is come to see you!”

Salgant was aware that he had stopped walking, that he was staring. Maeglin looked well, clad in dark grey and blue rather than his customary black. He was unsmiling, which was reassuring; Maeglin had been full of good cheer before the fall of Gondolin. Salgant had, at the time, been too pleased to see the dour young prince happy to question it overmuch. After the fall of Gondolin, he had seen that same smile on the face of a Power and understood what it meant even before he was told. (And oh, how the Enemy had laughed in the face of Salgant’s horror! He still heard it sometimes.)

Maeglin was watching him, his face set and cold, but Salgant could see the resignation in his flat gaze. What did he expect? What grievance did he think Salgant could have against him, Salgant who had fallen even lower and for less cause? Salgant did his best to brush himself off as he walked over, abruptly aware of his rough, sturdy coat compared to Maeglin’s fine clothing. “Lord Maeglin,” he said, bowing. “I… did not expect you here.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Maeglin said, wary as a deer. Tilissë had backed away, giving them some semblance of privacy, but Salgant knew perfectly well that she was listening for all she was worth, and news that a Lord with a Noldo accent and a Sinda name was here for Salgant would be well-known on the docks before the catch was in.

“…My lord, this might be a conversation for my home? It isn’t far,” he suggested hopelessly. “Tilissë, if you’d let my family know we have a guest?”

“I’ll send some bread with them,” Tilissë promised. “Your lordship,” she added to Maeglin, and bobbed another nervous bow.

“Inviting me to your home, Salgant?” Maeglin said once they had walked out of earshot. Almost everyone was at the dock; those who weren’t were, like Salgant, sent home to prepare dinner for the rest. “I did not expect such a warm welcome from you. The innkeeper had no idea who I was; news does not come here often.”

“Not about the Golodoi, no,” Salgant agreed. Not since Formendessë’s lost son had returned. “What news should I have heard?”

Maeglin glared at him with such fury that Salgant was taken aback. “You can’t have forgotten what happened. Duilin almost put an arrow between my eyes, decree or no decree.”

Salgant could hear, again, the Enemy’s earthshaking laughter, and fought down a shudder. “I know nothing of any decree, but I know what happened. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“How do you know.”

“I learned it afterward. Here, this is my family’s house.”

“Not your own?” Maeglin studied the house critically, and Salgant tried to see it as a stranger would. No Noldor had helped construct Formendessë, and shipwrights turned impatient house-builders lent the buildings a strange air. Unworked stone and earthen walls for strength and warmth, shells and mica flakes for beauty, tough driftwood for timber; it had little resemblance to anything in Tirion or Gondolin. Perhaps Cirdan’s fortresses were made of such unprepossessing material; Salgant had not seen them to compare.

“It’s the custom to add to your parents’ house rather than build another,” Salgant explained, ushering Maeglin inside. The walls were lined several times over in wood stacked up to the ceiling - a sensible precaution for the cold months, when fuel needed to be ready to hand. Spring meant the walls were thinner than usual. “I need to finish cooking before my family returns. We’d be honored if you would join us.”

“The inn can’t have much traffic,” Maeglin objected.

“Tilissë? She’s only an innkeeper because she didn’t want to take down her son’s rooms after he and his wife left for Alpalondë. Her husband is a blacksmith; she’s a baker.”

“Efficient,” the prince said, and watched Salgant cook. It was strangely companionable; Salgant had always enjoyed cooking, and Maeglin did not mind assisting him. He had never been shy of work, Maeglin.

“You should know,” Maeglin said at last, “why I’m here.”

Salgant braced himself, and nodded. Best to get it over with before his family came home. He did not want them to hear; it would not be good news.

“Lord Turgon’s alive now,” Maeglin announced. “He wants to see you. I told him not to bother waiting: you weren’t going to come unless someone fetched you.”

“You’re not wrong,” Salgant admitted. He would have been happy enough to spend his life here and never hear another word of Beleriand.

“Too bad he knew where you lived,” Maeglin said. “He thought about coming himself, you know.”

Salgant felt his face drain of color. His King, come to reveal his shame to everyone in his home? No! No. Please no.

“You’re welcome,” Maeglin said, curling his lip just a fraction.

“I am grateful,” Salgant returned, and meant it.

“I thought I’d handle the two matters at once. You sent no word, after all,” Maeglin added bitterly.

Salgant chose not to dissemble. “I did not imagine anyone would want to hear from me.”

“I am hardly in a position to judge you, Salgant.” Maeglin sighed. “At least if you already knew, my name won’t terrify your family.”

“…Ossë’s frozen grip!” Salgant swore, and added a few words that he would never have used in Beleriand. Maeglin stared at him, nonplussed, and Salgant put down the tableware. “…I have told them nothing of Gondolin at all,” he said hollowly.

Maeglin leaned back, eyebrows rising. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

Maeglin looked at him for a long time, as if searching for words. Then he shook his head, neatening the spoons beside their bowls and cups. Salgant looked at the steaming teapot and thought about what he was going to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Salgant is referring to Ulmo as 'Far-Sighted,' not Manwe! Also, there are vague implications of human sacrifice in this chapter.
> 
> Welcome to Telerin hell. Things that are not typos:  
> Hecellubar for Beleriand; from hecello 'forsaken'  
> Manue for Manwe  
> Balai for Valar  
> Vania for Vanya  
> yonia for yonya 'my son'

It went well enough at first, thankfully: Maeglin was courteous, and Salgant's family intimidated into uncharacteristic quietude. His father Halatirno apologized for serving only lobster, as they had not known to expect guests, and Maeglin assured him that lobster was a delicacy where he had been raised. Salgant wished for his niece Hyalmeche to be more circumspect about eyeing Maeglin's dark hair and eyes, at least while her husband was also at the table, but Maeglin ignored that as thoroughly as anything else he did not care for. 

It was after dinner - Maeglin sitting uncomfortably while Hyalmeche and her husband washed the dishes - that the trouble arose. Salgant's father asked, very reasonably, what had brought Maeglin to Formendessë, and Maeglin looked instead at Salgant.

Salgant looked at his family. They were watching him expectantly; Maeglin had turned his gaze to the fire. Salgant looked down at his tea. He thought about vanishing into the night, about dying of exposure on the mountains or throwing himself into the icy sea and returning to Mandos. He quashed the thought ruthlessly: his family would be heartbroken, and Maeglin would be left to tell Turgon. "I haven't told you everything about Hecellubar," he began. "I told you that I was of some service to Lord Turukáno, and went with him to Nevrast. I did not tell you that in Nevrast, he was visited by the Far-Sighted, and told to build him a city, high in the mountains, hidden from all but Manue. Turukáno named it Ondolindë; we called it Gondolin. "

Someone made a quiet sound of realization; it may have been Talangan. Salgant did not look up. "I had a position of great responsibility," he went on. "We prospered for some time. The Lady Irissë, Turukáno's sister, left the city." Salgant could hear Maeglin stiffen, drawing himself up straight. Salgant ignored him. "She made a poor marriage, and returned to Gondolin with her son Maeglin. She was killed in a terrible accident shortly after they arrived."

"This is not your best storytelling, Salgant," Maeglin muttered. 

Salgant raised his gaze just enough to glare at him. "Tell it yourself if you like." His mother hissed a reprimand at him for his rudeness, and Salgant winced. "...We went out to battle, the one that no one speaks of because it was so terrible. We held the rear-guard... Afterward, Lord Turukáno sent messengers across the Sea, despite the Balai's curse. Each year, he sent them, and each year they did not return. Turukáno was much beloved of the Far-Sighted," he added as his father made a noise of disapproval. "And in the four hundred ninety-fifth year of the Age, the Far-Sighted gave back one of the lives he was offered, and another messenger besides."

"Tuor," Maeglin growled. He did not care for long tales, and this story was close to him.

"Tuor son of Huor," Salgant agreed. 

"I know that name," his niece's husband said, startled. Billino, Salgant remembered, was from Avallonë, and would have more news from his family there.

"Go on, yonia," his mother urged, when Salgant would have stopped.

"He spoke in Ulmo's voice, and he reminded Turukáno of that doom, and bade us abandon the city we'd built. His advisors could not come to agreement about it."

"It seems straightforward enough," Billino objected. "You had warning, and at no small price, it sounds."

"Oh, not hardly," said Salgant's mother hotly, and his father hid a smile. "Don't you remember the story of Formendessë? I know Hyalmeche told you. The Terrifier roared against our shores and said that it was too dangerous, we would die so far from Aman, that he'd see to it himself if he had to. I remember that, Billino, I _heard_ him say he would grow coral on our bones!"

Billino quailed beneath her gaze, saying meekly, "Yes, Mirewen," as though she were like to turn him out into the cold spring air. Maybe she would; it was almost warm enough.

Maeglin was watching this exchange with great interest; Salgant, who had grown up with the unexpurgated version of the story, wondered what the summary sounded like to him. "This explains so much," the prince commented. "At least about the shouting match you and Glorfindel had..."

"You heard that?" Salgant asked, distracted; they had been in the corridor outside the council chamber, as he recalled. Salgant had the notion that drowning them all and sending them to Mandos could very well be Ulmo's way of hastening them home; pious Glorfindel had disagreed vehemently.

"Salgant. Everyone heard you. The _Eagles_ heard you."

"'Glorfindel?'" asked Salgant's father.

"One of the Vaniai," Salgant explained briefly. "Another adviser. He counseled obedience."

"Ahh, well, Vaniai," his father said dismissively, as though that settled everything, and perhaps it did.

"But what did Turukáno decide?" his mother demanded, as though Salgant could have forced Turgon to make the decision she wanted.

"We stayed," Salgant said, and she nodded in satisfaction. 

"We fortified our defenses, but I can't say we did rightly," Salgant admitted. "One of our number had been unlucky in love, and had taken to wandering beyond the borders of the protected lands. He..."

"It was me," Maeglin said abruptly, clipping each word. "Salgant, don't lie to your family. It was me. I disobeyed King Turgon's laws and went out alone in the mountains. I was captured and brought to the Enemy, and he took Gondolin's secrets from me. He sent me back-"

" _He sent back_ ," Salgant interrupted, his bard's voice easily drowning out Maeglin's, " _a puppet wearing Maeglin's face,_ who took control of his House and followers. I was one of those who listened to his counsel when Gondolin was assaulted at last. And I," he faltered, "when Turgon ordered us to the Great Marketplace, I... I..."

"Salgant did not obey," Maeglin said into the gap. "He sought to send his forces to the Lesser Market, and they mutinied to obey the King. Gondolin fell soon after. Turgon had no chance to see justice done, and now he has sent me to bring him Salgant."

Salgant put his face in his hands, so that he would not have to see them, and nodded.

There was a long silence.

"We'd like to speak with our son alone," Salgant's father said at last.

"Hyalmeche, Billino, come help me brush the dogs." Tacollien, his brother's nearly-silent wife. "You, too." That must have been to Maeglin. Chairs moved around the table; Salgant half-expected Maeglin to protest being ordered around so peremptorily. He didn't. The door opened and closed. That left his brother and his parents. Chairs moved again.

Warm arms wrapped around Salgant's shoulders, and he leaned back, closing his hands around his father's arms and squeezing his eyes shut. He breathed deeply, trying not to sob aloud. His mother put her roughened hand over his. 

He did not know how long they stayed like that.

"Yonia," his father said quietly, "it's all right. We're with you. We'll always be with you. Open your eyes, it's all right." 

Salgant obeyed, blinking hard, and saw his little brother frowning. Talangan said, thoughtful, "It does explain some of the things you've screamed about."

"...I don't scream," Salgant protested, and he didn't, he had mostly stopped going out into the hills for that.

"You do when you're asleep," Talangan informed him. "You don't remember? We've started taking turns singing to you. Seems to help."

"Talangan," his mother said firmly, "Mind the rigging." Her determined expression was the same one she wore when they were caught in a storm at sea, and Salgant took no small comfort in it. "Now, Sallo, tell us what you need. We can borrow Tili's little skimmer and have you leagues north before the night's out. You could stay up there until it's safe. Or we could take this, this _Golodo_ up north and leave him there, for that matter."

Salgant was already shaking his head. "I'm going with Maeglin. I owe that to Turgon. It was... unforgivable, what I did. I swore to serve him, and I didn't. I have to face him. I owe him that."

"Should we go with you?" his father asked, and Salgant stiffened in horror. 

"Please _don't._ Ossë's briny balls, _no._ I'll be with Maeglin, I won't be alone."

"He's a friend, then?" his mother pressed. "I thought he was just a messenger."

Salgant took a moment to admire Maeglin's abrupt demotion from 'prince' to 'messenger.' "He's a friend. Yes. It's a good sign, I think, that he came," he mused. "Turgon really could have sent someone else."

"So Toa shouldn't feed him to the dogs?" Talangan asked.

Salgant laughed helplessly, a little hysterical. "Oh, stars, she's making him help, isn't she? Oh, at least he's not wearing black as he used to... No, they can come back in, I'm well enough." He wiped at his eyes, wishing he were as stone-faced as the young Maeglin had been when he came to Gondolin. The worst had happened now. His family knew, and had not thrown him aside in disgust. Salgant doubted they understood the true depth of his failure, but they had never seen Gondolin or Turgon, and knew almost nothing of war. They didn't truly know, but at least he'd spoken the words to them.

Talangan must have said something to Tacollien, because the door opened to admit Maeglin. Billino and Hyalmeche stayed outside with Tacollien; she must have gotten them to help her finish brushing. Maeglin was already carrying a full bag, looking wary and a little overwhelmed. He was, Salgant could not help but notice, covered in white fur, and his dark clothing showed it very well. 

"Ah, Toa got you too," Salgant commented, and got up. His parents and brother still looked at Maeglin with caution - less, Salgant thought, for his capture by Morgoth and more for his current task, but Maeglin would not see it that way. "How did you find the dogs? She's very proud of them."

"They're... remarkable," Maeglin said neutrally. As Salgant showed him where to put the bag so that Tacollien could wash and card it, he muttered, "I thought we were being charged by wargs. _Fluffy_ wargs."

Salgant, still giddy with relief, smothered his laughter. "You know, now that you bring it up... No, they're only dogs. Horses fare poorly in the winters here."

"I am not even surprised that you ride them, Salgant, what does that say?"

"A sign of your perceptive nature?" Salgant tried. "Here, I imagine you'll want your own bed." He drew Maeglin after him into the bedroom, digging into the piles of furs and folded blankets for the best of them.

"You imagine rightly," Maeglin said, but then hesitated, a strange expression coming over his face. "If I don't wake before your family rises... tell them just to call my name. I don't... wake well... when touched."

"My brother just told me I scream in the night," Salgant offered. "I hadn't even known."

Maeglin took the offering for what it was, shooting him a grateful look. "You don't wake yourself? Salgant, I'm fairly certain I saw you sing down an entire reinforcing wall in the Nirnaeth."

"That is not the same thing," Salgant protested; he was not sure how well he'd take being teased by anyone else on such a shameful matter, but he couldn't summon any offense in light of Maeglin's own admittance.

"If you say," Maeglin said, and so Salgant was arguing the finer points of songs of power as they rejoined his family. The morrow would bring a journey and the days afterward would bring justice, but this, for now, was well enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any inconsistencies in grammar are undoubtedly the fault of the parents, as Formendessë does not have Noldor linguists looking down on you for giving your kids less-than-grammatical names because they sound prettier.  
> Halatirno - kingfisher  
> Mirewen - mist maiden, from 'mire' and '-wen'  
> Salmaganto - lute-player, from 'salma'  
> Talangan - harp-player  
> Hyalmeche - dainty conch shell, from 'hyalma' and 'netya'  
> Billino - breezy, from 'vilin'  
> Tacollien - woollen cloak, from 'toa' and 'collo'
> 
> It Sounded Good At The Time  
> Tilissë  
> Surillë
> 
> Yes, 'Talangan' is a nod to Salgant's intended name change! Don't theme-name your children, it's a terrible thing to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided NOT to use my own interpretation of the Fall of Gondolin for this story, because it was taking the story in a different direction than I wanted it to go. So this is instead the 'standard'-ish version, as is consistent with previous chapters.

He should have known that it would not be a private audience. Almost all the Lords of Gondolin were there; Glaeron who had been his second in the Harp was there with his wife Neleth, as well as some others he recognized of his House. 

There was only one person in the gathering that Salgant had any attention for, and he went to his knees before his king without being told. He had to remind himself that he was not expected to press his face to the floor; Turgon would not want such a gesture even if he were to understand it. 

Behind Salgant, Maeglin announced, "I, Lomion Irission, have brought Salgant Halatirnion of the Harp to account for his actions in the last battle of Gondolin." He withdrew to Turgon's side; Salgant saw his dark gray boots, but could not raise his gaze above his king's feet. No one who had looked on the face of Morgoth from Salgant's place could have.

"Reports have not been kind to you, Salgant Halatirnion, nor have you offered any other accounting of yourself to me of your own will," said Turgon coolly. "You are summoned here so that we may find the truth of the matter and set it into the records of Ondolindë. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my king," Salgant answered, addressing Turgon's boots.

"Glaeron of the Harp, you were among the last of your House to see your lord yet living. Tell your tale," Turgon commanded.

"Before the battle, we were waiting in the King's Square to hear the decision of the war council," Glaeron began. "I saw my lord come down the steps of the palace in haste. This was after Lord Tuor," he added, "for Lord Tuor was at a run, calling his men to him." He did not say that Salgant could not have run, though it was true then. He had been long crippled by that time. "My lord called for his horse, and I saw that his face was ashen. He told us to mind the supplies in the Lesser Market lest they burn, but he rode away in haste, and waited for no one. We went thither. It was well that we went, for by the time we had reached the marketplace, the Balrogs had begun to set the roofs aflame. If it were to be a siege, as we thought at the time, the supplies would have been much needed. But Lord Salgant was not thence; I did not see him again." 

"What did you, Salgant?" said Turgon.

"I went in pursuit of Lord Tuor," Salgant answered quietly. "For it was I who told him that Lord Maeglin meant harm to Lady Idril and Earendil, and it came to me that I had set them at each other like -" Here Salgant stopped. But no: he would not dissemble to Turgon. Halting, he went on. "It came to me that I had become like unto Fëanaro and M -Moringotto, setting kin against kin." The court murmured to each other; few of the Noldor would dare to compare Fëanor and Morgoth in the same breath, and fewer would call their deeds _indistinguishable._ But Salgant was Telerin, and saw no difference.

"And then?" Turgon was inexorable.

"I could not make much headway through the crowds," Salgant told the floor. "But I could hear the Mole and the Wing, fighting. It was... It was as Alqualondë had been. It was as though I were there, at that time and that place. My horse bolted. I think I cried out and panicked him, but I... I cannot recall. When I came to myself, I was in a stable; my horse had fled thence." He took a breath. "I did not go back out into the city. Orcs came into the stable, at the last, and I knew myself in Gondolin. I killed what I could, but I saw that the city was lost, and brought down what buildings were in reach of my voice. That is the end of it." It was the truth: that was the end of Lord Salgant of the Harp. The thing that lived on did not deserve that name.

Salgant did not say, 'I was in Alqualondë in my mind, and when I was not thence, I knew, I _knew_ that all of the fighting was kin against kin, from the Mole and from the Wing; I had no thought for orcs or balrogs. Would that I had!' 

What Salgant said was, "I failed. As your sworn lord. As a citizen of Gondolin. As any man faced with evil." Salgant could no longer resist pressing his face to the floor. He longed with all his heart to kiss the toe of his king's boot.

"Yes," said Turgon. "That is true." He lifted his voice. "Will any speak in defense of Salgant?"

"I will," Tuor answered, and at that Salgant raised his head. "I would not have known of Maeglin's - of Morgoth through Maeglin - anyway, of the threat to Idril and Earendil if it were not for Salgant. It was he who advised me to go to them, with all of my forces, because he feared some foul play of Maeglin's. Knowing their friendship beforetimes, I thought it must be dire indeed, so we went with all haste. I do not like to think what would have happened without his warning."

Nothing so kind as death, Salgant thought. The Lord of Werewolves would have found much interest in a half-human child and his elven mother, and what Lord Melkor would have thought did not bear considering. 

"I understand your defense, Lord Tuor," said the king, "and I will take it into consideration. Salgant Halatirnion, go and bide in the antechamber until you are sent for." 

Salgant went. He thought distantly of those who had not attended his hearing. Rog had not been there, nor Galdor. Galdor's heart had never been within Gondolin, though, and Rog - it was a blessing that Rog was absent; he would not have looked kindly on Salgant's cowardice. Salgant had not been able to meet the gazes of his House. Perhaps someday he would be able to. Perhaps not.

Time passed. Maeglin came to fetch him; he was frowning, but Salgant judged it did not mean much. He knelt before Turgon again, and listened to his fate.

"The penalty for treason is death - but you did in fact die, and the Valar frown on bringing punishment not their own into Aman for deeds done in Endor. This is therefore my judgment. You are no longer a lord of Gondolin, Salgant. You have no title given by me, and no claim to anything of that city. Nor do I want to see you in my holdings until thirty years are past."

"My king is merciful," Salgant told the floor tiles. It was true.

"I am done looking at you, Salgant," said Turgon, but where his words were cold, the king's voice was almost pitying.

Salgant bowed as low as he could and departed the palace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TELERIN HELL  
>  (Q.) Helcaraxë -> (T.) Heclaraxë  
>  (Q.) Amme -> (T.) Emme, informal emmece  
>  (S.) Elwing -> (T.) Eluingë

Salgant walked back to Alqualondë. There were only some few tradesmen with their carts on the road; five times a driver offered him a seat, and five times he declined. He did not want to be asked about his tale, and he did not want to listen to another's story. Nothing had changed in his circumstances, Salgant reminded himself. Turgon's banishment had been largely symbolic - but it was a symbol that struck Salgant to his heart. He had put his own people aside to follow Turgon, and to have failed him was a hard blow. It was done now, done and judged, but Salgant couldn't separate the parts of his life so neatly again now that they had been joined together.

He had time to study the walls of Alqualondë when he came to them. He remembered well what they had looked like after the Noldor had taken the city, and the repairs were sturdy but crude, to Salgant's Noldo-trained eye. Olwë had not, he judged, suffered any offer of aid after the battle. The Teleri were indifferent stonemasons, but no Noldo would touch their city again.

He had not sought news of his aunt in Alqualondë when he and Maeglin had passed through it, nor of the relatives he knew had moved there. It came to him that he had no such reason to avoid them now, though he did not much want to see anyone. 'Urgent business in Tirion' was enough of an excuse during his and Maeglin's journey through Alqualonde, but it would not suffice for his return trip.

He doubted that his aunt would have moved far from her old home, which had been small but near the docks, and he was right. It had a second floor now, he saw, but that was all he could take in before his aunt spied him. 

" _Salmaganto!_ " Surillë shouted, and if Salgant's unrestrained voice had been enough to rattle windowpanes, his aunt's might have shattered them. Surillë flew at him, colliding with almost enough force to topple them both. "You clappered minnow! You shell-sucking vagrant! Uinen's bloody shark-rags, what were you _thinking!_ Get in here!"

A pale-haired head appeared through the second floor window. "Ulmo's floating logs, is that Salmaganto? Actual uncle Salmaganto?" 

"Actual whale-fucking Salmaganto! Get your brother!" his aunt called, and Salgant let himself be hauled inside. Surillë seized him tightly, and Salgant realized she was weeping. He had never seen Aunt Surillë cry, and could think of nothing to do but hold her, even as she thumped her fist against his shoulder. (It was odd, being the same height as she was - returning to the court of Gondolin, however briefly, had reminded him of centuries spent looking upwards. The children of Formendessë were never tall.)

"What the hell were you thinking," Surillë raged, grabbing his shirt and shaking him back and forth. "You think I wanted to lose my nephew _and_ poor Foamrider? You idiot!" Salgant was too dazed to resist her - his thoughts had all been of Gondolin, and he had not prepared himself for this reunion. 

A reunion and an introduction, because Salgant's nephews came down the stairs, one of them holding a young woman's hand.

"I should fasten an anchor to you!" his aunt told him, with one last rib-bruising embrace. "That's Ciuran in the blue tunic, and Páne in the dark brown. And Telecalepte, when did _you_ come in, you sneak?"

The young woman - Telecalepte, presumably - shrugged and waved. All three of them were eyeing Salgant with interest and, for his nephews, some amount of shock. Surillë scrubbed at her eyes, composing herself. "He's the one who - _stupidly_ \- went over the Heclaraxë to try and rescue our poor ships," she explained to Telecalepte, who looked impressed.

"Ugh," his aunt went on, seeing Salgant only nod to his relatives, "Sit! Come and have tea, you wretch, hug your nephews, honestly, where have you _been?_ " Salgant let himself be herded into the kitchen, where the ever-present hot water was waiting for them. He exchanged awkward, stilted embraces with both of his nephews, nodded again to Telecalepte, and sat at the table.

"You haven't said a word," Surillë announced suspiciously. "What's gnawing you?"

Salgant had to clear his throat before he could reply. "I had to take some bad news in Tirion," he explained. "Nothing unexpected, but it has me out of sorts."

"Murdering _Golodoi,_ " Surillë said, and peeled her lips back from her teeth. "That's enough to rot _anyone's_ catch."

Salgant remembered, very suddenly and very clearly, on the Ice - early into their journey, soon after he'd crumbled in the face of starving Noldor children. Turgon on his knees, thanking them for the lives of his wife and child. He had been weeping, and even when forgiveness had still been unthinkable, Salgant's heart had cracked underneath him like bad ice. He had been horrified at himself, knowing Turgon's hands still bloodstained, knowing only chance had kept Turgon's boots from a Swan-ship's deck. 

"Uncle?" said Ciuran, cautiously.

Salgant blinked, found all four of them staring at him. "No," he said, "It wasn't like that. I'd rather not go into it, if you don't mind."

"If you say." His aunt patently did not believe him.

Salgant forced a smile. "But come, tell me of Alqualondë! What of your lives here?"

Over tea, he learned that the Teleri had rebuilt their fleet, and Surillë had joined with another fishing crew instead of building her own vessel again. ("I hadn't the heart for captaining, after Foamrider.") He learned that Ciuran loved numbers, and managed accounts for Surillë's vessel and others besides. ("There's not enough work in Formendessë," Ciuran admitted. "I know Emmece's disappointed that I only come back for visits, but this is what I love. I don't love fishing." Surillë added affectionately, "He's an unnatural child.") Salgant's younger nephew, Páne, _did_ fish, and had been accepted under Surillë's captain. He was courting Telecalepte, who was apparently as swift as her name implied when it came to mending and making nets. ("We're thinking about spending some time up in Formendessë, to see if Leppe likes it there," Páne confided.) Salgant shared news from home, how the catches had been and how Hyalmeche's pregnancy was progressing, and avoided speaking of his first life at all. Surillë was kind enough to let him dodge the issue, but he thought the younger elves were burning up with curiosity. Salgant had no mind to indulge them.

The door-chimes rang out, interrupting Salgant's anecdote about Hyalmeche's more unusual requests during her pregnancy. They were remarkably loud, Salgant thought, trying to pretend he hadn't jumped at their jangle. 

"Well, _I_ wasn't expecting anyone," Surillë said. "You're already here, Leppe, not that you ever ring the bells, and surely it's not your parents. Uinen bless their hands, they know where you always end up. Sallo, were you going to meet up with anyone this evening?"

"No," Salgant said slowly. Surely Turgon wouldn't have sent anyone after him. He had done as he was bidden, after all. And none of the other Lords would want to have any more words with him than they must. Unless..."I'll see who it is," he offered, with a sense of foreboding. 

As he had half-suspected, Maeglin was at the doorway, looking stiff and defensive. 

"What in the stinking hells are _you_ doing here?" The words were out of Salgant's mouth before he had a chance to reconsider them - curse his aunt and her foul tongue!

Maeglin drew himself up, clearly offended. "What in the 'stinking hells' were _you_ doing, taking off like a spooked horse? By the time I came out of that damn council, you were long gone! And no one in this entire miserable cesspit would give me a straight answer about where to find this place."

Salgant looked at the prince as he hadn't before: dark Noldo hair, but pale Avari skin; pinprick tattoos on his hands and face, but Noldo-styled clothing. In Alqualondë, just enough to get him the right directions, but not enough for any kindness in doing so.

"Not to _you_ they wouldn't," Surillë said from behind him. Salgant turned to see her staring coldly up at Maeglin. "What's your business with my nephew?"

Salgant saw on his face the moment Maeglin chose diplomacy over bluntness, and resolved to thank him for it later. "Surillë of Formendessë," the prince said, and bowed. "Salgant's sung of your valor."

Surillë lifted her chin, not appeased. "So at least you _know_ why you're not welcome here."

Maeglin shrugged, and just as clearly abandoned conventional diplomacy. Well, at least he'd tried, Salgant thought. "It's nothing new. Too Noldo for the Sindar, not enough Noldo for the Noldor. Why should the Teleri be any different?"

"Aunt," Salgant inserted, trying desperately to salvage the situation, "He's a friend." 

"Friends? With a Golodo?" Now Surille's glare was turned on Salgant.

"Salgant," Maeglin said, "I understand you'd rather not discuss your old life, but this is becoming ridiculous."

"Chasing me halfway across Aman is what's _ridiculous,_ Maeglin," Salgant shot back.

"Maeglin the _Traitor?_ " Páne's voice was high with shock - the rest of the family had joined them in Salgant's distraction. 

Maeglin crossed his arms and fixed Salgant with a stare. 

"He wasn't a willing one, no matter what rumor says," Salgant snapped - Maeglin may have given up defending himself, but _Salgant_ had not.

"How do you know?" his youngest nephew demanded. "The lady Eluingë's husband spoke about his old Golodo city, and how the Traitor tried to kill him. Everyone's heard it."

Salgant gave up. "I know because I was there, and I reasoned it out afterward."

"I have," Maeglin inserted, sounding bored, "a pardon saying as much from the king of Gondolin." 

"More to the point, why were _you_ there, Sallo?" his aunt said slowly. "That was supposed to be a hidden _Golodo_ city."

Salgant opened his mouth to answer, but Maeglin was faster. The prince said, with a certain malicious pleasure, "He was in King Turgon's service."

"Turukano the murderer? Turukano, who turned away from Ulmo?" Surillë said, power gathering with rage in her voice.

"I am not asking _you_ to forgive him," Salgant said, very calmly, "I am _telling_ you that _I did._ "

His aunt stared at him, and Salgant knew he would never forget her expression, not until the end of Arda itself. "You _forgave_ that Kinslayer, that kidnapper, someone who would have put his filthy hands on Foamrider? _Get out of my house._ Get out, and take your Golodo _friend_ with you!"

Salgant did not argue. He caught Maeglin's sleeve and pulled him away from the door. Behind them, his aunt began to scream out her fury. He did not stop walking or turn to look at Maeglin until they were out of earshot entirely. That was some time; his aunt's voice was at least as powerful as his own, and she was not holding back.

Maeglin spoke first, after they had left even the reverbrations behind them. "That could have gone better."

"No," Salgant said. "No, I don't think so."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the first scenes I wrote for this story. It it seems a bit choppy, that's why.

"So, that was your aunt," Maeglin said, once they were safely away.

"And my nephews," Salgant agreed. "I don't think Páne will be coming back to Formendessë, as he'd said he might. ...That was the one who called you a traitor," he clarified after a moment.

Maeglin shrugged. "I go by Lomion these days. Pengolodh wrote a fairly unflattering account of Gondolin, and it's what most people know."

"Is that where the idea that I'd falsified Turgon's orders came from?" Salgant wondered. 

"That's the one. He speculated I had orc blood. From Father's side, of course."

 _"It would be a waste to make an orc of you," Sauron said, "We can do so much better than that!" Salgant could see nothing but the Maia's lambent eyes in the darkness, but he could feel, he could feel -_

He'd stopped walking, and Maeglin was in front of him, snapping his fingers. "Salgant! Think about your rebuttal to Pengolodh later. I expect it to be superb, mind." Maeglin had spoken in jest, Salgant saw, but he was frowning, concerned.

Salgant made a vaguely assenting noise. He was in Alqualondë with Maeglin, he had just left his infuriated aunt's house, he had died in Angband. He rubbed a thumb over his fingers, over his wrist, and felt nothing but callused skin. 

"Come, I found an inn that would stable my horse," Maeglin told him, "We can get something to eat there and send you on in the morning."

"You rode? You should have caught me up before I reached Alqualondë," Salgant said, puzzled.

"The council meeting was exactly the long-winded shambles you think it was," Maeglin said, curling his lip, "And then I had to actually search for you afterwards."

Salgant had done his best _not_ to think of the council meeting at all, to be honest. Now that he did, though, he can imagine how his former peers would have filled Turgon's ear. "I suppose."

The innkeeper turned out to be Falathrim, Salgant saw, which explained how Maeglin had found stabling so easily. It was Maeglin, for once, who arranged a private room, dinner, and, unnecessarily to Salgant's mind, a bottle of wine.

"You need it," Maeglin told him, in a tone that brooked no dissent.

They ate in silence for the most part, discussing little more than the wine's provenance and the state of imports in Tirion. Maeglin, Salgant gathered, had only barely settled in Tirion at all; his mother had been eager to spend time with him, and eager to drag him to all her old haunts. Maeglin seemed both embarrassed and wildly pleased to have so much of Aredhel's undivided attention; Salgant was glad for them both. 

Such neutral topics lasted them through the meal and most of the wine. Then Maeglin struck. "All right," the prince said at last, drawing himself upright, alert as a terrier. "That is enough. I must ask, and I will know, Salgant."

Salgant flinched backwards, realizing suddenly that Maeglin had made sure he'd had the majority of the wine, that he had been lulled into complacency. He did not know what Maeglin intended to have from him, but his stomach dropped to his feet.

"What _happened_ to you?" Maeglin demanded. "You did not say to Uncle that you _died,_ you said 'that was the end of it,' and you are not the Salgant I knew in Gondolin. You already knew I had been captured, where nobody could have told you. You - yes, _that,_ you cringe away, you _cowered_ before Uncle like he were Morgoth himself!"

Salgant felt the color drain from his face. Maeglin's eyes narrowed.

"--ahh. Ah, I see now," the prince said slowly. "You've _been_ there. You've seen him. How long?"

Salgant was transfixed, pinned by Maeglin's stare. "I don't know." There had been no day, no night, no time in the Iron Hells. Years, certainly. Centuries, perhaps.

"Long enough," said Maeglin.

"Yes."

"Uncle took reports from some of the Gondolindrim who had been captured, after they died and awoke in Aman. They never spoke of you."

"They wouldn't. I was not with them. Lord Melkor - Morgoth - thought I was amusing. I dwelt underneath his throne with the serpents, and sang for him and his commanders.

"...Sang for him?" This, at last, turned Maeglin's iron gaze into puzzlement. 

Salgant licked dry lips. "In the Black Speech," he said. "Of the triumphs of Angband and the conquest of Gondolin. Praise of Melkor. I would have gone mad, I would have died, but they did not let me."

Maeglin hissed.

Salgant went on. He could not seem to stop. "They knew very well how to break a mind and change it into a new form. The body follows after. Because I was amusing, Sauron, he - preserved it, my mind, instead. He said it was an... interesting challenge. To change the body alone, and not the spirit. He enjoyed himself."

"He would. I remember Sauron," Maeglin said. "I remember him well."

"Yes. I thought you might."

They stared at each other across the table in silence, until Maeglin reached over to take Salgant's glass and drain it. "Damn him!" he muttered. " _Damn_ him. Why didn't you tell Uncle this?"

"Why _would_ I? Salgant of the Harp died when Gondolin fell. It made no difference if I kept breathing for longer than that."

"You know," Maeglin said, staring at the empty glass in his hand, "Nothing happened to the rest of my House. Despite what I had them do. The king decided that the punishment for sedition and rebellion should come on the Lord of the Mole's shoulders, and that Angband had done that and worse for him. Said something about Fingolfin and 'the Doom' and not repeating mistakes."

Salgant smiled despite himself. "Yes, that sounds very like Turgon."

"He'd do the same for you," Maeglin pointed out.

"And now you know why I said nothing."

"Hmm." Maeglin twirled Salgant's glass. "You mean to keep it a secret from everyone, then? Your family, too?"

"The less I tell them anything about Beleriand, the happier I am! You saw how well it went with Aunt Surillë."

"That's an excuse, your other family is hardly so fiery. Wargs aside. In the Gardens - I know you spent time there too - they told _me_ that speaking about it would help."

Salgant shrugged; his healers had been mainly concerned with the tenuous connection between his spirit and body. "They told me that being with my family, doing tasks I knew well, would be of the most benefit." More specifically, Este had said that it would remind him of which shapes his body was meant to take and which shapes were unnatural to it, but Salgant did not like to remember the times that he could not distinguish the two.

"Still," Maeglin insisted. "I think you should seek Rog out. He'd not be surprised by anything you told him."

"Rog? Why, in the name of every arm of every sea-star on all the world's shores, would I want to seek out _Rog?_ He wasn't even at the council," Salgant protested, aghast. Speak to _Rog,_ valiant Rog, Rog who had won his own and his people's freedom from Angband itself?

"Of course he wasn't there; he never comes to anything about Gondolin. I think he has Ecthelion send him summaries. You shouldn't fear his judgment, though," Maeglin said, moving straight to the point of the matter. "He fared little better than you or I in the battle."

"I heard the Hammer of Wrath was largely destroyed...?" Salgant said, half a question. He'd sung of it, in fact, Rog and his House of slaves' humiliating and painful defeat. (That, at least, was the Balrogs' version of events.)

" _Entirely_ destroyed," Maeglin corrected. "To a man. They over-extended and got cut off. He blames himself somehow, so he'll have nothing harsh to say to you. Also," Maeglin added significantly, "If you go see Rog, I _won't_ hound you all the way back to Formendessë."

Salgant felt the brief but intense desire for a song about twitchy little mole noses in other people's business. There was no melody in his heart for it, or even any verse, but he wished for a moment that there were. "...You drive a hard bargain," he said aloud, resigned to his fate. "Where does he dwell?" He would see Rog, but speak of nothing important - that should meet the letter of Maeglin's demand.

"Aulë's halls," Maeglin said, all too obviously pleased with himself. "Go ahead and take my horse; it's a short enough walk to Tirion."

"I wish you every blister in the world," Salgant told him feelingly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tactical Analysis on the Fall of Gondolin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6263569) by [Siadea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/pseuds/Siadea)




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